


Mothlight

by sam_roulette



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Blind Character, Character Study, Chinese Character, Cultural References, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Found Family, Gen, Kid Fic, Music, buzzfeed unsolved shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_roulette/pseuds/sam_roulette
Summary: Eight months after Melanie moves in, she's still falling victim to a neverending sense of aimlessness. Romping around sites of disproven "supernatural activity" and insulting "ghosts" for What the Ghost helps give direction, but healing is a slow process even with Georgie by her side. One night while looking for something that won't stir the ghosts of the past, What the Ghost finds something far more literal.Sometimes a family can be two lesbians, a cat, and a Victorian ghost girl in a nightgown.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	1. new moon

**Author's Note:**

> CW: grief/mourning, mentions of canonical character death

Melanie and Georgie are getting sloshed on a work night.

Well,  _ technically  _ a work night. Georgie’s pretty sure the ship that had work in mind had sailed off the edge of the map the moment they’d concocted the plan to go to a gin palace, but Melanie had been adamant. Georgie has to do thorough research for her podcast, after all, according to her very professional opinion.

Never mind that Ghost Hunk UK had milked this location of both its whiskey and its history in one of their earliest episodes and Melanie still has all the notes Georgie could ever need for a twenty minute feature. Georgie could stand to be personally present to take in the building and all the ghosts contained therein- which Melanie, now free of any repercussions to her reputation at this point, is ready to admit amounted to a grand total of zilch)- and Melanie could use a pint. Or several.

And so the two-woman crew of What the Ghost’s on-site investigatory team has had their asses sat in the cushioned seats of London’s very own Viaduct Tavern since dinnertime. They haven’t really budged, even after the owner closed up shop and turned out all the lights on the podcasters' request.

Well, two-woman-and-one-cat was more accurate, which is probably why the guy who’d been assigned to supervise the pair had wrinkled his nose and bailed on the job early. Melanie isn’t complaining. They still have a good few glasses worth on the table if they can take it; having free access to an enormous, open, quiet room built specifically for drinking that she hadn’t had the time to properly enjoy when she was still bullheadedly concerned about getting the right camera angles is a plus.

The bar is quiet but for the scratching of Georgie writing in her notepad and the clinking of the glasses on the countertop. Melanie has both her hands buried in the Admiral’s silky fur and listening to him purr in her arms when she hears the sound of Georgie pushing back her seat.

“Right then, I think I’ve got down all the little details I’m gonna add to the script-" she begins reading aloud, pacing across from where Melanie is sat- “’Viaduct Tavern: the unquiet resting place for all sorts of spirits and spirit enthusiasts- and not to mention the ghosts!’ Oh! I’m probably adding a sound effect of cheering barmen in here, care to pitch in?”

“AYYYYYY!” comes Melanie’s cry as she toasts Georgie with an armful of Admiral.

“ _ Mrphhhh, _ ” comes the Admiral’s drowsy response at being raised as a toast.

“Perfect,” Melanie can hear the smile in Georgie’s voice as she forges on, “Built in 1869 across from the infamous Newgate Jail, the last Victorian Gin Palace of London has played host to the horrible histories of the time, and the spicy antics of the unruly patrons as they dealt with their day-to-day by downing a cheap swig of alcohol.”

Melanie nods in approval of both the narration and the patrons, tipping her drink in the direction of Georgie’s voice before taking a sip.

“Being a mixing pot of the wealthy and poor, the tavern was populated with a rowdy bunch of workers, and criminals, and worst of all, _lawyers,_ which led to many a drunken skirmish and daring duel- possibly, to the death…!”

“I’ll say,” Melanie sets the Admiral on another chair, reaching for her cane, “I think we saw a painting with a hole shot right through it when we were last here. Look around for it- could maybe add something to your script.”

A few moments of Georgie shuffling around later, she replies, “Found it! Oh wow- there it is, just, right above the woman’s arse. “

“Tragic. Imagine going to the afterlife that doesn’t exist and you meet the woman who’s representational arse you shot. Your unfinished business is making amends for the destruction of the private property of that ass.”

“Oh, look at that, bullet holes on the ceiling too,” Georgie says.

Melanie snorts. “ _ Wow  _ they must be a terrible shot,” An idea pops into her head. Reaching for her bag and holding her cane under her arm, she has Georgie guide her right to the front of the painting and pulls out a nerf gun. 

“Uh, what are you-”

Brandishing the toy in the air, Melanie gives her impassioned speech to the room at large. “Listen up here, GHOST! I’ve seen better shots than you in a hospital of lumbering dead soldiers that’ve probably sustained themselves on nothing but shrapnel lead and roasted homing pigeons for half of their bloody existence! Step up your fucking game! I am a paranormal investigator and I implore you to shoot me!” 

“Melanie, why did you bring a nerf gun to our expedition-” Georgie asks, incredulous.

Melanie lowers her voice for a moment, “It’s an old habit from our crew bringing toys to places we thought were haunted by little kid ghosts.” She raises the toy to the ceiling, “You hear that? You’re a failure of a ghoul and I had to coax you assholes out like horrible tiny babes! Shoot this projectile out of my hand! I’ll bet even I can fire more accurately than you can! That’s RIGHT, I am CHALLENGING you to a shooting match to get this neon green suction cup projectile to where you last shot holes into public space! Plug up that poor woman’s arse! I repeat, we’re plugging up that woman’s arse!” 

As a closing statement to her speech, Melanie fires a round up towards the ceiling and another to where she guesses the painting is. She turns to Georgie and asks, lopsided grin on her face, “Did I get close?”

She hears a small laugh and Georgie answers, “Not  _ quite _ , but I’m sure she appreciates your attempt at helping her regain her honour post-mortem.”

“See? I’m an avenging angel.”

“There’s still a suction cup stuck to the ceiling.” 

“Right. Either the bloke who bailed on his supervising job can deal with that or it’s gonna be my ghostly legacy.” By the surprised mew coming from where Georgie stood, she must’ve been picking up the Admiral.

“Say, I think I remember some of the hauntings that were reported about this place, let’s go on a little tour, have a little stretch of the legs.” Melanie says.

Georgie comes over to her, leading her with one arm and probably cradling the admiral on the other. Melanie smiles. “Explain away, babe.”

\---

After a trip to the supposedly active upstairs loft, (although the reported ‘activity’ of a woman getting a newspaper slapped out of her hand and objects moving on their own sounded to Georgie like they were being haunted by a restless Admiral), and the tavern cellars (where Melanie had loudly chastised the ghosts for slamming the very heavy self-closing door and then had a ten minute internal debate about whether or not to nip some of the wine), the two ‘paranormal investigators’ are sat back in the drinking area of the Viaduct Tavern.

“Oh, damn, we left our drinks unattended,” says Georgie, noticing the glasses still on the countertop.

“Mhmm, best to be safe about it. Don’t know what weird Victorian drugs the ghosts could’ve slipped in it,” Melanie muses, half-sarcastically, “Although I think I remember there being a story about a ghost that steals people’s gin when they aren’t looking around here.”

“Just drinking right out of a stranger’s cup now, huh? That’s just rude.”

Melanie slings an arm over Georgie’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit,” she says, pointedly.

They must be more tipsy than they thought, because the stupid pun makes them both dissolve into giggles. 

The bubbling laughter bounces off the walls of the bar, and Melanie enjoys the presence of a usually crowded and hectic room rendered empty. It's now still and silent but for her and the one she loves and one very bored cat. It reminds her of banquet halls after all the guests have left and the ones who’re hosting the celebration get a chance to laugh and talk amongst themselves about their fortune as they clear up the plastic table covers and share the leftovers. No longer in the passionate fervor of the evening revelries, and not yet in the enveloping comfort of bed. Just two people and a cat, enjoying each other’s company like the hectic outside world’s been put on pause. For now, in this hall, it’s just them. It’s nice.

_ Hmmph,  _ she thinks,  _ I’m getting sappy.  _ Feeling around in her backpack, she finds something that’ll cut through the sentimental silence nicely.

The Admiral yowls as she flips the switch on the radio box she and her crew had used to try and piece together Ghost Words from bits of radio transmissions. Georgie makes a vague noise of inquisition at the sudden sound of static and Melanie just shrugs. 

“Just an old ‘ghost hunting’ machine.”

The radio box buzzes and sputters out a few incoherent bits of conversation as Melanie downs another drink. The Admiral makes his displeasure clear by trying to bat the noise machine off the surface, so Melanie picks it up and tosses it lightly between her hands. 

The short bursts of radio static is coming in a nice rhythm, she thinks, bobbing her head slightly at the staticky beat. She wonders if Georgie is bobbing, too. What an appropriately goofy thing to cap off the night with.

Feeling around her head for a melody, Melanie hums to the beat and smiles when she hears Georgie’s light taps in accompaniment. Their (she chooses to think it’s their) head bobbing officially graduates to a certified jam. 

They let the radio box carry them for a while before Melanie lands on which of the songs hanging out in the recesses of her memory the melody had belonged to and begins to sing, each line coming louder and louder to the quick ascending melody until she yells the last words, throwing her head back and letting the triumph carry through the air.

“虽然你不能开口说一句话,

却更能明白人世间的黑白与真假,

虽然你不会表达你的真情,

却付出了[1] _ 热忱的生命 _ !” 

She is aware that she’s headbanging to radio static and otherwise completely unaccompanied singing and no music. She’s both too drunk and too elated to care. She continues, pumping her fist into the air with each mantra-like cheer of the chorus: 

“酒干淌卖呒!

酒干淌卖呒!

酒干淌卖呒,

酒干淌卖呒...”

Half expecting Georgie to join in despite her not knowing the song or the language. (Melanie thinks the lyrics sound strange when sung in her voice alone.)

“酒干淌卖呒!

酒干淌卖呒!

酒干淌卖呒,

酒干淌卖呒...”[2]

She feels something stir in her chest as she sings the repeating lines. 

_ Oh. _

She remembers what this song was about. She remembers whose voice was supposed to be in the empty spaces of the lower register and feels her throat closing up as some of the words come out choked. She doesn’t want to stop singing. 

“多么熟悉的声音,

陪我多少年风和雨,”[3]

Not even as the meaning of what she’s singing sinks in.

“从来不需要想起,

永远也不会忘记!”[4]

Not even as she feels her face grow hot and realises the tears are flowing. 

“Melanie?”

“没有天哪有地,

没有地哪有家,”[5]

Not even as the sound echoing through the hall becomes more sobs than song.

“没有家哪有你

没有你哪有-”[6]

She stops singing.

\---

“Let’s get you home, Melanie. When we get back home we can talk it out, okay?”

\---

It isn’t until the dead of the late night hours that they get to talk it out.

Melanie had passed out the moment they returned to Georgie’s flat, with Georgie carrying her to bed and climbing in afterwards for a rest. That rest was cut through by a soft rattling noise from the warm form sleeping across from her.

“Babe?” Georgie shifts the heavy covers between them, uncovering her girlfriend’s face.

It’s hard to make out her expression with her tightly coiled posture and nothing but the weak gleam of moonlight to illuminate it, but with the covers no longer muffling the noise, she can hear gentle sobs escape into the still air of the room. Melanie is crying.

“Melanie?” Georgie reaches out, prompting her with an arm around her side to move closer in, “Melanie what’s wrong?”

Between her arms, the only response she can sense is Melanie furiously shaking her head and the sobs coming harder. She makes no move to push Georgie away, though, and so they stay lying there for a good, long moment.

Georgie is beginning to take stock of the room around them while she thinks of what to say when Melanie grips her at the arms and pulls herself closer, falling into Georgie’s chest. Georgie scoots up slightly to support the shivering frame curling closer against her. She feels Melanie’s breath come in a quick staccato as she is burying herself into Georgie’s arms. The sobs have somewhat subsided, at least.

“Nightmare?” She asks.

Some sniffling, then a sigh. “I wish.”

They spend some time in relative silence before Melanie musters up the energy to continue, “Was a dream, though. Not a nightmare. Good dreams’re- God, the good ones’re almost worse.” Her last sentence comes clipped as the tears seem to threaten to return.

In a low tone Georgie asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Melanie seizes up, seeming about to decline, but after a moment’s consideration, she sits up, pressing a hand to her face.

“The song I was singing- in the bar,”

Georgie puts a hand on her girlfriend’s shoulder. She looks about ready to fold in on herself again.

“Dream was about the movie the theme song was from. Really old, sort of just… shitty VHS type.” She is shaking her head lightly again, breath hitching with attempted levity. “Real shoddy production quality, it really doesn’t hold up, even for then it was…” A sigh. “I was made to watch it. With my- with. My dad. It sort of sailed over my head as a kid but it was… good. Really good. The song was a part of it. Sort of a joke routine we’d latched on to after hearing it.[7]

“God, you don’t know the lyrics of it- I think at some point I took them to describe what he was to us… ‘ _ Without the sky there’d be no Earth, without the Earth there’d be no home, without a home there’d be no you, and then and then what would I be _ ?’” A shadow of a laugh escapes her. “And then we screamed ‘ _ Have you sold the beer!?”  _ at the top of our lungs and started th- the headbanging. It was just…  _ stupid _ .” She turns her head upward at that, either to blink the tears away or clear her mind, and continues, voice a quiet whisper, “It was great.”

The words hang in the air and Georgie says in acknowledgement, “And that was the dream.”

Melanie nods, curling in on herself and holding her knees to her chest. “I hate that it can’t even just be a good dream. I…  _ hate _ … that it just reminds me of something I don’t have anymore.” Bitterness lace her words as she spits out, “I knew how good I had it. Knowing it doesn’t bring him back… Knowing how he… died, knowing how he still remembered me,  _ useless _ . It  _ won’t bring him back.” _

Georgie says nothing, and sits up on the bed beside her.

“I miss so much, all the time. I miss when I at least knew what I was  _ doing  _ with my job. I miss my father, I miss my old friends, I…” She pauses for a long time. “I miss the anger. At least then I had something that kept driving me forward, didn’t allow me to sit around and  _ stew  _ like this.”

“You’re entitled to all the moments of grieving you need to get through this. You know that, right?”

“Mhmm,” Melanie huffs.

Georgie wonders if their expedition that day had caused more harm than good. Biting her lip, she says, “What we did today… we can find something else. All the old work things, all the old reminders, I don’t want to be the one keeping you in the past.”

Melanie considers for a moment, then seems to release some of the tension in her shoulders. “Not you,” she says. “It wasn’t you or what we did that gave me the… reminder. With the bullet out, it would’ve come anyway. Besides,” she takes another uncertain, shaky breath, “I miss them. But I have you.”

“You have me,” Georgie agrees. With that the conversation seemingly ends, and they lean into each other, resting against the other and counting the rhythmic rise and fall of their breaths while they allow their eyelids to grow heavier.

Before they could drift off, though, Melanie sniffs and declares that she’s going to wash up, a hand on the wall to follow out of the room. “Keep the bed warm for us,” she says.

“Holler if you need anything.”

“I need a warm bed, babe,” Georgie’s glad to hear the lightness in Melanie’s tone again. “Besides, I’ve been here for months now. I can find my way around.”

"Fair enough," Georgie says. It had been about eight months, after all.

By the time Melanie clambers back into bed, Georgie has come up with a suggestion to make.

“Melanie, are you sure you want to keep doing this? The ghost hunting- or, well, ghost harassing, I mean.”

“Yeah?” she replies with a small laugh, “If you think I didn’t enjoy that, you haven’t been paying attention to who I am as a person.”

Georgie smiles. “Right. But, let’s do something new to both of us, eh? Try not to tread over old ground.”

“Going fresh! I like it. The Ghoulies in Viaduct knew what was coming. This time those bastards won’t know what hit ’em.”

“Right, the drinking song metalhead woman against the bastards that we both know don’t exist.”

“ _ Shhhhh,”  _ Melanie curls into Georgie’s side to settle in for proper sleep, “I’m a force of nature.”

_ A Force of nature that’s very cute when sleepy, indeed,  _ Georgie thinks, and together they drift off to slumber, following the rhythm of each other’s breaths as they go.

\---

Two weeks of basic research and an assumption that the landowner vacationing somewhere in Greenland wouldn’t really notice yet another ghost hunting team coming in to fuck around in their creepy old Victorian mansion later, Melanie and Georgie break into the old Perigee House with Georgie’s camera and an entire load of Melanie’s old ghost hunting equipment.

Their research had told them that this was the location of a supposed murder of a classically creepy Victorian ghost girl and subsequent supernatural activity, a less popular location within Melanie’s former circle of peers but still frequented enough for her to safely write it off as a load of bull. She does think the story that came with it is a nice run-of-the-mill backstory, though, with a little girl’s parents singing her a sweet little lullaby tune that she ultimately ended up getting murdered to and sings around her room to this day. There was sheet music for it on the website and everything. 

Perfect for a little section for What the Ghost, if they can make sure the copyright claims won’t smell blood the moment they notice it and it somehow turns out it’s based on some country song about a threesome with a cult following from 2003.  ...God, people on the internet get inspiration from weird places.

Melanie can smell the dust in the place when she and Georgie step in through the doors. She’s quite sure there’s wind coming from places where once there were floor-length windows. The owner sure isn’t taking much care in maintaining their property, that’s for sure. If they are then they’re very specifically going for the aesthetic of old, skeletal and abandoned.

“Ye olde man-faced cat paintings,” Georgie comments. “Spooky.”

Melanie listens to her describe the rest of the house as they move through it. Apart from that first detail, it seems right down the alley for a haunted house. Chandeliers still with places for easily blown out gas lamps. Bulky wooden furniture way too heavy to be conveniently maneuvered between in the case of a chase with overstuffed drawers and chests up the wazoo. A veritable infestation of mirrors. There’s even a place that looks like it was once a library, floor scattered with books that they’re not touching with a ten-foot pole after… everything, no matter how much flippant bravado they have for disproven ghost hunting sites.

After making their way through the spooky drawing room (very nicely filled with a child’s scrawling about what Georgie described as a tiny gremlin-looking demon that apparently liked to raid their family’s library); the spooky upper loft (which had a single child-sized bench smelling of chalk dust that the Admiral rudely declined Georgie’s imploring to sit in); and a visit to the spooky toilets (the spooky part being that the plumbing obviously didn’t work and they needed to resort to going outside); hey finally come to the area described as most active with ghostly activity, the girl’s bedroom. “Samantha,” Georgie reads, from the plaque that Melanie felt on the wall behind the door. Melanie feels the hand guiding her arm shake slightly. Georgie must be feeling the chill.

“This is our place, then!” says Melanie. She starts fishing out the radio box and some toys from her bag.

In the rotten wood that still lay in the fireplace, covered by the shuffle of Melanie’s search, a small, moon-shaped pendant winds itself up. It prepares to repeat a lullaby that it’s carried since 1798, tinkling, and uncertain, and scared.


	2. waxing crescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ghost has arrived, and ends up being far more scared of Melanie than Melanie is initially scared of her.

Melanie’s lowered herself to the ground to get to work, sitting cross-legged on the rough wood. They’ve left the nerf gun at home this time around. Taverns supposedly full of the rowdy ghosts of the death of the party are one thing; the old dilapidated resting place of some miserable Victorian is another. Never mind that their entire thing is three parts showmanship and one part disrespecting the dead. It just doesn’t strike Melanie as appropriate for this one. 

So stuffies and checkers it is. Melanie’s got a grab bag full of the ones she got at some oxfam in Camden containing a lovely mix of perfectly cute and suitable teddy bears and the occasional porcelain-faced soft-bodied horror show, which she lays out one after the other in front of the fireplace. She feels the ground beside her, looking for where she’d thrown that little lion with the glasses as she asks, “Hey George, you got a camera rolling?”

“I’ve got a recorder on my end, yeah- you think anything will show up on camera?” Georgie asks, rifling through her bag with a little ruffle of fabric and miscellaneous objects.

“Maybe? If nothing else, you can get a permanent picture of the place. Better than the two eyes between us,” Melanie feels along the embroidered seam where the lion’s “glasses” are pushed up over its nose.

“Does the Admiral mean nothing to you?” Georgie tsks, setting the camera on some nearby surface that gives a dully metallic _twang._ “He’s been scouting out dust bunnies all this time, and for what? Disrespect,” By the banter, Melanie’s guessing she’s in the shot.

“Damn, my bad,” Melanie says, “How could I forget the Admiral’s service to the cause?” Smiling, she turns her face toward where she’s _relatively_ sure the fireplace is as she sets the plush lion down along the front line of stuffies. “Hear that, Samantha? If you have any little ghostie friends, I’d be careful! The Admiral’s got a taste…….. for _blood.”_

She bats at one of the stuffies to demonstrate and ends up coughing from the cloud of dust that suddenly blasts her in the face. Christ, it feels like trying to breathe through a wad of wet sandpaper- how long had this place been just kinda left to its own sad state, exactly? After hacking up her lungs, which was both unpleasant and inconvenient, considering Melanie is currently trying to use them, Melanie wrinkles her nose, leaning back. “Okay, note to self. The dust also has a taste for blood, for the record.”

Georgie laughs somewhere behind her, and Melanie swears she feels her shaking her head. Georgie says, “The record appreciates your brave sacrifice,”

“It better,” Melanie says, “I’m setting up the checkers now- wanna see a ghost get its arse kicked?” 

“The spirit of an entire child?” Georgie questions, bemused, “Maybe in a sec- the Admiral looks like he’s found something over here,”

“Pah! Your loss,” Melanie grins, “And her loss too, soon as I get these set up. Hey, Samantha! You don’t care if you’re flat-tops, do you?” By the lack of objection raised by the apparent “ghost” that was supposed to be in here, Melanie supposes not. 

“I’ll get the other camera over here set up,” Georgie says.

Melanie replies, “Thanks babe,” and sets about feeling for the bag of toys, accompanied by the clack of the tripod being set up behind her. She sets up the checkerboard. It’s small as shit and she almost certainly lost two of the pieces with the raised circles on the back somewhere, but it’s good enough for the show. Especially since her opponent is completely nonexistent.

“If you think I’m not gonna know if you try to cheat, it ain’t going to work,” Melanie accuses no one, pitching her voice just a bit louder so the viewers at home get a good listen. She trusts Georgie’s setting it up so that Melanie is shown, sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of a tactile board of alternating raised and recessed squares, with a big load of nothing settled across from her. It’ll make for an easier time in the editing room later, switching between Georgie’s more “serious” form of investigation and Melanie’s silly bullshit to lighten the mood. 

Georgie says behind her sympathetically, “You might want to be careful with Melanie here, she’s got a sixth sense, one might say. ”

“I’ve got eyes on the back of my head!” Melanie boasts to the uptick of mild static from the spirit box set aside earlier. There are a few notes that make it through the static, like some kind of music box, but Melanie doesn’t pay much attention to it. She hasn’t calibrated it to the point where it could be genuinely useful as spirit detection.

A resolute _click_ of the tripod’s legs locking properly and a whispered, “You’re live,” tell Melanie all she needs to know. 

Georgie’s picking up her own camcorder and going to wherever else they can get a good shot- and probably getting some behind the scenes footage of Melanie being filmed for the patreon. Patrons fucking love gag reels. And Melanie has gags, if nothing else, so she keeps goading on the “ghost” of the house, trying to recall whatever trivia bits from those Cracked articles she’d read before and likely misremembering half of it.

“You have to make a move _sometime.”_ Melanie says as she moves yet another piece to a recessed square, “What, did nanny top you off on that Winslow’s?”

She’s still half listening to what Georgie’s doing, not really paying attention to whatever half-funny fluff falls out of her mouth. There’s Georgie on the other side of the room, playfully saying to the Admiral, “Oh, of course you run now,” before her footsteps suddenly pause. “Oh, what’s this…?”

“‘This’ is what you get! You have to have something planned at some point-” Melanie says as she takes one of the opposing pieces and carelessly lets it clatter on her side of the board. It doesn’t so much as ‘clatter’ as ‘give a pathetic little tap’ because it’s made of shitty plastic and the floors are feeling a little too dank to properly have sound. Melanie counts that as the sound of victory regardless. 

“Samantha, Samantha… Oh, Anne.” Georgie says amongst the sound of fabric shifting, “Looks like someone wasn’t too excited about embroidery, huh?”

“Huh,” Melanie shivers suddenly, a draft whispering over her skin. “Damn old house- figures no one’s ever patched this place up…”

There’s a sharp chirrup from the Admiral, muted across the distance, and Georgie says, “Good find, Admiral! It’s… more books. Hm.” 

“… unless…” Melanie leans back a bit, hand holding her chin as she starts entertaining the thought that maybe… “This is your play, then? Keep real quiet and just hope I don’t notice you sneaking off with my pieces!” 

A hiss and then Georgie hissing out in turn, letting out a terse, “Hell-! Admiral, what’s gotten into you-?”

Melanie pauses, systematically checking the position of all her pieces as she says, louder, “You doing alright there, Georgie? He didn’t scratch you, right…?”

“I’m fine! He just got spooked by a bug, I think,” Georgie says. “How’s the game going there?”

“Wiping the floor with a Victorian child as we speak,” Melanie replies, going back to checking her pieces. “Good to hear you’re fine, though!”

“Yeah..” Georgie says, trailing off. Probably getting invested in whatever old ass textbooks got left around. Melanie leans forward and reaches for the piece she has farthest on the board and her arm brushes against fur, making her startle slightly from the sudden feel of it.

“Admiral!” Melanie says, fake scolding, “Don’t come running to me after scaring your mother, young man- do you want scritches?” She reaches back and makes to bury her hand in the thick fur and is immediately taken aback by how _hard_ that is. It feels like the fur’s gotten coarser somehow, knotting into a gnarled mess. Just how much dust had this feline been rolling in?

“Melanie,” Georgie says warningly, and she can hear her footsteps plodding towards her and feel Georgie’s familiar hand on her arm.

“Would you look at this!” Melanie says, petting over the gnarled hair, “How’d you get this matted already? We just brushed you, what, yesterday-”

“That’s not the Admiral.”

Melanie’s hand freezes. For a second, the words don’t really register- because, well, the Admiral just ran from Georgie, and it’s not the biggest room in the world from what Georgie had described to her. But then again, Melanie’s hand is still resting on the body of something that is sitting adjacent and close enough to touch. 

The longer the coarse texture rests against her palm, the more she realizes it isn’t fur. It feels like... hair, dirty and knotted up around debris that Melanie could probably dig out, if her fingers would move. There’s no way another animal would have approached like this in the first place, and in a room full of surfaces to bump into, Melanie doubted another intruder wouldn’t have made some kind of noise.

Slowly pressing her hand down just the slightest bit, she feels the hair encasing somewhat solid flesh, sticky and fresh. Melanie listens closely to the blood that sloshes around the shell of her ears to keep her heart in tune. The head-shaped lump under her touch exhales.

“Georgie,” Melanie asks, as calmly as she can, “what am I supposed to be seeing?”

“It looks like a girl,” Georgie tells her, and Melanie isn’t hearing her move. That’s for the best. Melanie doesn’t know whether whatever’s under her hand has a hairline trigger or if it prefers to reap its fear from the long, drawn out process. “About ten or eleven. Black hair, kind of pale... I can’t tell what color her eyes are from this angle because you have your hand on the back of her head, and she’s looking down. She’s in a nightgown, kneeling over the board…”

Melanie can guess what detail Georgie is leaving out from the tender give of rot under the pads of her fingers. She’s grateful for it regardless, because the way Georgie makes it out to be, the thing almost sounds normal. It’s important not to let these things know how hard her heart is starting to beat- she’s learned that lesson dozens of times over.

The fact that she was petting the probable horror show probably isn’t scoring her any points here either.

“Sounds like Samantha came out,” Melanie says, “am I right?” 

“Looks like it,” Georgie says. Georgie doesn’t list the options but Melanie’s already going through them. Buried is probably out, but the decay says it might be Corruption; End was obvious for the corpse aspect; but it would also be right up a Stranger’s alley to take the form of a seemingly innocuous little girl too, wouldn’t it?

“Are you getting this on tape?” Melanie asks conversationally, slowly lifting her hand away.

“Seems like it,” Georgie says, “but we might need someone else to look over the footage later,”

Melanie doesn’t give a damn about the footage. The current plan is a simple one: make it seem like they were just wrapping up shooting, very calmly walk out of the house, and then drive away as though she didn’t notice this were a terrible supernatural encounter. It seemed to work with a lot of the oblivious dipshits that ended up at the Magnus Institute, and by God is Melanie going to make this work for her.

“If we ever decide to use it. Figures we’d come out of this with an ethical quagmire, or whatever you call it,” Melanie says, keeping things light. 

The whisper that answers makes something cold and primal claw up Melanie’s spinal column. It takes some of the breathing exercises she learned in therapy to keep herself from visibly shuddering as she tilts her head down to hear better. The rasp of a long dead voice is interspersed by bursts of static and the soothing chime of a lullaby winding on to a small infinity. 

“Ethics was never my strong suit,” Georgie says, receiving a slightly more gargled whisper in answer.

“Hm?” Melanie asks, “is there someone else trying to say something? Anyone else want to share with the class?”

“... out.” 

It really does sound like a little girl, huh. 

It makes the act of wiping the corpse off her jeans all the more grotesque. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Melanie says, nudging around with her foot until she finds the game board again and starts packing it up. 

A little louder, this time. “... get _out.”_

“Working on it,” Georgie says, beginning to dismantle the tripod previously recording a chess game that ended up being a little less one-sided than originally expected. 

The good thing about this situation- if there was ever such a thing as a “good thing” when the dread powers were apparently involving what seemed like a child- is that both Georgie and Melanie know who the real target is. 

All Melanie needs to do is keep quiet and never give away how much realizing what she touched made her want to tear her own stomach out with her bare fingers, grime and all.

\--

So they’re taking apart their set up, and it’s only when Melanie picks up a cat plush that she remembers the Admiral.

It’s harder to ignore the ghost in the room.

\--

What Melanie gathers is that Georgie is fine; the Admiral is also probably fine, because Georgie isn’t making to search too frantically for the animal and is focused on scooping him up; and that the ghost acts fucking bizarrely. 

She’s had her fill on spooks, of course. She knows better than most what being around a ghost ought to feel like; knows what touching anything a ghost has on them can do. Her leg still flares with residual muscle memory from time to time, tingling around the edges of the jagged surgical scar like the aftertones of a struck guitar chord. 

Melanie’s not noticing that here. Touching the ghost’s hair had definitely been weird and existentially terrifying in the moment, but she wasn’t feeling much more than average low-level dread now. There was still no music coming from unaccounted for sources.

There’s also the fact that every other second the thing seems to be whispering some variant of “get lost” or “hurry up”. Not exactly the kind of words of a vengeful spectre looking to wreck bloody vengeance upon the living or dole out terror for the sadistic enjoyment of their cosmic God. It sounds more like a kid in secondary getting anxious about cousins overstaying their welcome in her room. Still, best not to let anything on in case this was one of the trickier ones.

Melanie turns off the static-spitting radio and hears an old music box. It keeps winding up and down, as though the tune is searching for a place to trail off, a place to end, and getting none. It’s soft, laying somewhere in the fireplace that Melanie had set everything up in front of.

At the sound of music, she tenses. Waits for something in her blood to respond. Waits for her heart to bang against her ribs like mallets to an army drum. Waits, against all odds, to feel angry.

There’s nothing.

Slowly loosening the tension from her shoulders, Melanie lets out a breath. Behind her, Georgie says, “All packed up! Ready to go?” and answer should be ‘yes’. The ghost has apparently not gotten any sort of wind of the fact that Melanie has been scared, then has been waiting to be scared, and it would be the best time to ensure that they never have to speak of this again.

But the music box is still going. And just because she isn’t in tune doesn’t mean someone else listening won’t be.

“Not yet,” Melanie says and, extending her cane, reaches toward the fireplace. She immediately begins to poke around.

“Don’t!” It’s the loudest the ghost has been yet. It’s surprising- but against all odds, it’s only surprising. It really does sound just like a nervous child. Melanie decides to push her luck, since that’s just the sort of thing a true oblivious victim would do. “You can’t touch that!”

“Why not? Seems solid enough to me,” Melanie says, hitting something solid with the very tip of her cane. The fireplace is surprisingly roomy on the inside. Not enough to need all of the meter long cane, but still a little deeper than expected. She starts nudging it out.

“That is- that isn’t…” The ghost says, losing the raspiness as full use of that voice continues. There’s a shifting and Georgie makes a bewildered sound behind her. “Make her stop! She’s with you- take her and go!”

“Kind of rude to be talking about me like I’m not here, but okay,” Melanie says, bending down. She coughs at the ash that puffs up from even jostling the pendant in any proximity to her face and hopes, belatedly, that this place doesn’t have asbestos. Or arsenic in the wallpaper. The contours of the pendant are worn, dented at the top part of a full moon. Feeling along the bottom, she finds the winding key still moving and presses a finger against it, stilling it into silence.

Turning, Melanie feels around the ground with her cane until she finds precisely where Georgie is and, precisely, where the ghost child has apparently latched onto Melanie’s girlfriend. When Melanie bends down to what she’s guessing is her height, the child makes a high, startled sound, moving back. 

There’s still a part of Melanie that’s wary- but mostly, she’s just feeling worried and kind of cowardly, doing things like fearing what seems to genuinely be child-shaped, at least. If there’s any chance that this is genuinely just a kid, Melanie doesn’t want to think about what could’ve happened here before. She holds the necklace out to Samantha and asks, “This yours?”

“I thought that was clear enough already.” The ghost girl says in an old accent that doesn’t at all hide how young she sounds. 

“Are you gonna take it?” 

“...” 

The ghost girl doesn’t answer, and Georgie says softly, “Alright, I think you made your point. It’s pretty obvious she’s scared here.”

If this ghost really does have the mentality of a child Melanie can only guess that a random woman storming her bedroom and loudly taunting her over a game of checkers was not a good look. 

And then it hits her that if Georgie can’t feel fear, and if Melanie is no longer afraid, then there’s only one victim in this supernatural encounter.

It’s a damn shame Melanie hasn’t the foggiest clue what to do with kids.

“... I don’t think you should be left alone,” Melanie says decisively, standing straighter. She pockets the pendant, deliberately leaving the chain hanging in case certain little ghosts wanted to change their mind. 

“What are you going to do…?” Samantha asks at about the same time as Georgie asks, “I’m sorry?”

“I mean, come to think about it,” Melanie says, gripping the handle on her cane tighter and leaning forward a bit, “even if we don’t come forward with the footage, there’s gonna be other ghost hunters getting into this place eventually. We know there’s music involved- someone who didn’t get away from the Slaughter might end up affected.” 

“Or else it’ll do something over time- either for the Slaughter or for something else,” Georgie says.

“I don’t think a ghost would still be here if it went like that- in India, it was like…” _the beat of hooves marching men forward thrust the bayonet through the sternum breaking of the enemy lines neatly fractured_ “memories. Tied to a single place. The battle was always going to be there, so that’s where they stayed.”

“So you’re saying,” Georgie says, voice calm in how ludicrous she seemed to find the idea, “you want to come back and… check on her?”

“Maybe?” Melanie says, shrugging, “Or else at least, find out what’s going on here? It feels like if this room has some kind of trick to it…”

Georgie doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then she says, “We should talk more at home,” in lieu of an answer.

\--

They say ‘goodbye’ to Samantha the Victorian ghost who doesn’t appear to be aligned with… well, anything. It’s exactly as awkward as it sounds. 

The awkwardness is not helped by the fact that she really does seem spooked by Melanie, for some reason.

They get to the car and Melanie settles the Admiral in her lap, scratching under his fluffy chin. She’s _infinitely_ glad that whatever terror seemed to be at large earlier in the night, the feeling is pretty much gone from the air- leaving Melanie slightly unnerved by Georgie’s continued quiet, but still thankful for even that much. It’s been a long night, after all. 

The Admiral continues to purr away as the car slowly stutters to life, and Melanie’s sure that she could use a bit of a catnap herself, until she hears Georgie inhale. 

“Honey,” Georgie says pleasantly, “the ghost is in the backseat.”

“Oh.” Melanie says, wariness returning and thinking that maybe she was too soon on thinking this wasn’t a threat. “That’s. Hm.”

“Hm indeed.” Georgie says. 

Melanie doesn’t know for sure the ghost is still there until Samantha gasps at the lurch of the car forward, scrambling to stay in her seat. Melanie can still almost forget she’s there, until Samantha manages to ask in a somewhat quavering voice, “Wh-where… where are you taking me.”

“Well hell,” Melanie mutters, leaning her head against the car window. “Guess we’re just taking you back to our flat, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments so far!! We hope you enjoy, and see you next month!


	3. first quarter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghost keeps appearing where Melanie goes. The ghost is also not happy about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs:  
> \- mentions of child death / child murder  
> \- memory loss

Georgie is discovering that the ghost girl is… rather difficult to coax, balled up in the backseat of the parked car.

It- she, had remained stubbornly quiet through the whole trip... Though Georgie thought she could see a small hand tentatively reaching out to the Admiral when he’d wiggled free of Melanie’s grasp and poised himself between their seats to stare at their unexpected passenger. It was quickly pulled away at the Admiral’s faint hiss. He then jumped to the back seat and curled up, staring pointedly at them, as if angry that his napping had to be interrupted by guard duty.

_ Interesting priorities, that cat _ . Sure, he fell asleep halfway through anyway, but, well. Points for trying.

Melanie scoops the Admiral off of his spot and brushes up against Samantha on her way out. Still no sign of movement, there.

“Do you think being dead means she can’t take in those car fumes?” Georgie asks, “Or d’you think they knocked her asleep too?”

At her words the form seems to shrink in on itself, face smushed up tightly against her nightgown and hands balling up the fabric at her waist. They hear a rattle as the mirrors of the car seem to shake in their loose holders.

“Not sure if incapacitating fumes are the best thing to bring up to this particular audience,” Melanie remarks. 

The ghost girl speaks up, voice small and urgent, “Where are we.”

_ Was their flat established at any point the ghost would know of…?  _ “Um, London.”

If Georgie isn’t mistaken, she thinks she sees the ghost slumping forward a bit with an air of… exasperation? There’s a long pause before there’s any more response.

“…S’pose that explains the fumes.”

She even sounds half grumpy about it, beneath the fear. Georgie looks at Melanie again, standing to more attention as she starts to reach towards Samantha.

“Uh, sorry to be… pushy,” Melanie starts,” but- it isn’t… generally advisable? To leave a kid alone in a car? You could come with us, or maybe we can carry-“

“ _ No!” _

The rattling comes more forcefully this time. The vehicle lurches as if being entered by a momentous load. Georgie is quick to act, pulling Melanie away and out from the area she was leaning in to.

As they wait for the car to settle back, swaying a bit from the inertia, Georgie leans close to Melanie and whispers, keeping her voice low enough to not be heard over the rattling.

“Melanie, are we  _ absolutely  _ sure we want to introduce a ghost in our apartment- It’s not just me overcompensating, right? There  _ has  _ to be some level of danger to all this-”

“I don’t think leaving her here where she can latch onto anyone who passes by is much better.”

“We aren’t, though, are we? She doesn’t sound all too keen on following anyone, anywhere, how are we even gonna bring her up?”

Melanie stays quiet.

“Babe, I’m not saying we should ignore all of it and keep her locked in there till it breaks down, just… let’s load the equipment up first, check in on that footage and, I dunno, talk to her some more once we clear up what actually happened to her?”

A sigh from Melanie. “Yeah, that- that sounds like a plan.”

\---

Samantha is  _ not  _ falling asleep. Not even sure if she  _ can. _ Whatever infernal new contraption they have her in- she’ll- she’ll find some nook or other to hide in, make herself scarce till they bring her somewhere she recognizes, and- Oh, blast it all, she’s never going to see a familiar place again, is she.

Think.  _ Think _ . She’s in London, fumes abound; probably means they pinched her up for work in the factories. Oh, the governess warned her about this: said she’d end up put out to work if she weren’t gracious for what she got.

She dreads whatever punishment she’ll get when they discover they picked up a damned soul, unable to work- or, surely she must finally be off to hell, and of bleeding course it’d look like a factory. If only she were in a fit state to properly touch things. She hopes it isn’t the governess that’s here to shepherd the children cast to hell. The news of her demise last… year? Fortnight? She isn’t sure- might’ve been her only source of relief in the fireplace.

No, not the only source. The women in those gas-pipes took her relief, and they have to  _ give it back.  _ It’d begun to feel more like a piece of her than any old trinket since… since she was  _ disposed of. _

Oh, she remembers, awfully well. The voice of the governess flitting through her dreams before her lungs were denied their precious air- and she’d thought those crooning words meant she was  _ safe _ .  _ Stupid, stupid, STUPID. _ Only herself to blame that she died. Only herself to blame that she’s… here. Dammit,  _ why _ did she go out to look at that chess game!? The horses didn’t even have little  _ faces!  _

There’s a terrible rattling again and she feels her seat shudder beneath her as panic grips her heart. The horrible metal car had given her two warnings before, she doesn’t want to see what its wrath would look like if she can’t control her hysterics. 

It’s okay, though. She still has her voice. If she can’t have the tinkling of her pendant to soothe her, she’ll just have to do it herself. 

Lord, she hasn’t been apart from her music box in further than her memory even exists. Doesn’t even full remember the words she’s supposed to sing. She hugs herself and tries to remember, it feels like reaching for fog.

“Hmmm, hmm hmm hmm… On my bosom… Hmmm, hmmm hmmm hmm hmmhmmhmm…”

Her voice sounds shaky, even to her own ears. She hates having to fill the foggy parts up with mumbly nonsense. She  _ knew  _ this. She is  _ supposed  _ to know this. Has that much of her really slipped away…?

“Hmmm, hmm... lover..?” (Was that the word?) “Arms are folding… hmm hmm hmm hmm hmhmmhmm” 

The next part she almost expects to hear sung  _ to  _ her, but… no, whoever’s voice used to fill that, no one was coming to give that to her, not in this frightful place.

“Hmmm, hmm hmm hmm, Hmmm, hmm hmm hmm… naught shall ever break thy rest… Sleep my darling babe in quiet…”

Quite sure she’s ever going to sleep again, she thinks to the missing voice.

“-Sleep on mother’s gentle breast.”

_ Wait.  _ That didn’t come from her- it came from- Oh  _ no.  _

It was the voice of that woman- the one without eyes- she has her _ pendant.  _ Is she close? Oh, lord, did Samantha’s singing anger the car? She’s surely going to be  _ finished _ -

There’s a tugging feeling. Somewhere up her- her  _ bosom _ , like the most horrible tide, she feels herself go cold to the world- not  _ again-  _ as the scratchy seat she was in, the smell of the fumes, the sound of air passing along the slit in the glass, all begin to slip away.

If someone with the right kind of sight and hearing were to pass by, they’d hear the sound of rattling coming from Georgie and Melanie’s car, the small, soft voice of a child singing bits of lullaby with a strangely prim, shaky accent, and, the voice of the same child, high-pitched and as if they were the last words of her life, saying to the air:

“Oh,  _ cock.” _

\---

“There shall no one come to harm thee, naught shall ever break thy rest…”

_ Rather nice lyrics, actually,  _ Melanie thinks as she tries to memorize the lyrics the text-to-speech had rattled off to her earlier. _ When you trash the stuff online rewriting their arses off to be spooky and find the actual old traditional song, it’s nice. _

“Sleep my darling babe in quiet…”

_ Was the musical pendant always going…? _

“Sleep on mother’s gentle breast.”

There’s a small sound of something being disturbed behind her, and Melanie turns around. Samantha must’ve followed her up here, she thinks, and the chill that whips through the air by her face seems to confirm that.

Tentatively, she holds the pendant out in front of her. She should probably get Georgie. Lord knows she’s had enough surprises that she needed to warn Melanie of for a day.

Then again, she feels that the less fear is in this situation, the better, and she’s really not the one in the room who needs to be calmed, if the tense little breath is anything to go by. Might be better if she holds off any hollering.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take it?” She asks, trying to keep her voice soft. “Seems it’s important to you, if you followed us up here?”

If Samantha has made any move towards her, the footsteps were too light to hear. Or, maybe ghost feet just have a naturally-imposed muffler on them, or the kid’s floating like in the cartoons- she’s not sure. What she does hear is a huff, cut short in an apparent attempt to keep the slip hidden.

“I didn’t.” The voice is barely audible.

“Sorry?”

“I was- I heard-” A wheeze. She sounds like she’s working herself up more, trying to take in breaths that won’t come. Melanie considers stepping forward to comfort her again, then pauses, remembering her reaction in the car. Best to respect her space, for now. 

“Why am I  _ here?”  _ she demands _. _

“...Honestly kind of trying to figure that out on our end, too,” replies Melanie, with her apprehension probably loud and clear in her voice, “We, uh, didn’t expect you’d follow us into the back seat.”

“I  _ didn’t!  _ I’m just t- yes,  _ please,  _ I would like my pendant back.” And Melanie finally hears the sound of Samantha plodding her way towards her.

She’d been assuming the ghost’s hands would be as unnatural and clammy as the air around them, but what brushes up against her palm feels… normal. Colder than the temperature of the room, sure, but she could’ve been fooled that it was just the hand of some child who’d had a romp outside a chilly day without any mittens on.

There’s a clasping noise- Samantha holding the pendant against herself, she guesses- then a pause. “You aren’t able to... See me, are you? You aren’t able to Tell?”

That makes Melanie’s own breath hitch. The fact that she can just  _ hear _ the implications by the tone of her voice definitely isn’t great.

“Blind as I look, don’t worry. I put a lot of effort into not being able to  _ Tell.”  _

Another pause. “You… you did that  _ on purpose? _ ”

Melanie cringes. Of all the awkward questions she’d expected to get, this sure isn’t the circumstance in which she was expecting to receive them. “It was… a bad situation I was in. Got myself tied up in something. It got me out.” 

“Oh.  _ Oh.”  _ There’s a sound of clattering as what Melanie assumes is the pendant drops to the floor.

By her experience with ghost rumors that she’d honestly been prepared to proclaim as an inaccuracy and the faintly horrified tone in Samantha’s voice, Melanie can see where this is going.

“You’re tied to that pendant, aren’t you? Bound not to go where it isn’t? Is that why you appeared in the car? And here?” 

“I’m not-”

“Hey, it’s okay, your pendant’s with you, now, okay? We won’t try to tug you anywhere you don’t wanna go, and-”

“It’s- I’m…” Melanie allows herself to be cut off, and hears a strange on-and-off, frantic scrabbling in front of her. She waits for a while before she asks again.

“Are you… having trouble picking it up?”

More scrabbling, then a whimper, then an audible gulp as Samantha seems to try to collect herself. Melanie thinks she hears a cup fall over at the whimper. When Samantha speaks again, her voice regains that sort of old-fashioned air, and the words come out rushed, indignant and rather desperate.

“...you sing that song  _ awfully  _ shaky, you know?”

\---

When Georgie pulls herself away from the research and steps into the living room, she certainly isn’t expecting to see the ghost girl they’d left in the car sitting on the floor. She sits across from Melanie, knees held to her chest and seemingly wanting to disappear into herself.

Melanie must hear her coming, because she makes a sharp motion- either ushering Georgie over or telling her to keep quiet, or both. Her expression looks… meaningful, sort of concerned, but not scared, so, at least there’s that.

Georgie crosses the room to kneel closer to the girl, trying to keep her voice as soft as possible as she asks, “Your name is Samantha, right?”

The girl seems to consider her response, then gives a mixed sound of affirmation and distress, very pointedly looking up at neither Georgie nor Melanie.

“We promise we aren’t going to hurt you.”

Samantha seems to force herself to look up at Georgie with no small amount of effort, and the expression on her face looks like she was at once trying to cry and trying  _ not  _ to cry. Her eyes look… tired, far too tired for a child her age to be. Both in expression and in sheer apparent strain. The dark circles make her eyes look almost sunken in. 

“Why a flat?”

Behind Georgie, Melanie asks back, “Um… what?”

“Why does it look like a  _ flat?” _ Her tone turns accusatory. “You could’ve gotten me anywhere you wanted- why  _ here?” _

“We…er... live here?”

“I was… told the Devil would’ve made things colder.” Samantha briefly looks relieved before her face up again as something else appears to dawn on her. Georgie hasn’t felt this lost for a response to a conversation topic in ages.

“You’re not in… what I think you think you’re in. Samantha, this isn’t Hell-”

Her eyes widen. “S-sorry- of course it isn’t…! Silly me, I’m- I’m sorry, of course it... I… where would you have me? I’ll...” she starts sinking her face into her dress again, “I’ll go.”

Georgie looks again at Melanie, placing a hand on her shoulder and tugging her gently as she stands up. They  _ really  _ should’ve discussed how to deal with this somewhere out of earshot.

\---

They ended up telling Samantha she can stay in the living area, dragging a mattress out if she needs it and taking turns keeping her company to make sure nothing happens. Melanie isn’t sure if Georgie was worried about what Samantha might cause or how Samantha might hurt herself. Probably both.

In the quiet of night, and the chill that follows Samantha whenever she goes tense, Melanie tries not to feel too much like an intrusion on what must be a frighteningly unfamiliar new environment for a kid.

The ghost girl has been staying close to her pendant, given the occasionally moving sound of clatters where she’d probably managed to pick it up for a short while then lost her corporeality. Sometimes accompanied by despondent sighs, but always denied whenever Melanie asks if Samantha would like it moved somewhere for her. 

Which, fair enough. Melanie can’t think up any spot in the flat that would make Samantha feel  _ less _ exposed- or less trapped, if Melanie were to be the one to put her there. 

She doesn’t seem to need to sleep, either. Or, if she does, she’s doing one hell of a job denying herself from it compared to what Melanie’s seen in other children. Any suggestion that Samantha could try to lay down and rest on the mattress or couch was met with a flat “No.”

Another clatter, this time without a sigh. Melanie feels guilty that she’s feeling a bit bored already, aching to stuff her earphones in to get on Spotify or a podcast when someone’s living what she thinks is literal Hell beside her. 

So instead she sits in relative silence on the couch, trying to ignore how the covering doesn’t warm up properly under her body heat when the chill comes. 

Not for the first time, Melanie considers asking if Samantha will tell her what happened to her, but… if the last year had taught her anything, it’s that prying open someone’s past can end up opening some nasty wounds. She has no idea how stable Samantha is, either, and she hopes whatever happened with the cup and in the car won’t escalate into some Poltergeist situation.

Searching around for a topic, she asks, “Hey, Samantha, d’you know what a radio is?”

There’s just quiet for a moment, then, “Oh! I-I’m sorry- No.”

“It’s a, uh, fun little box that receives signals from the air and puts them out into words. We have something else, like that, called a cell phone- it’s got quite a lot of answers about quite a lot of things, if you have any to ask?” 

There’s an uncertain pause as Samantha seems to consider this. “Where’s my Governess?”

“I think that might be more deep of a dive than you’re expecting…” Melanie certainly can’t remember finding any legal names beyond the Nobles- all the servant records and records of those outside the family had been burnt. “Are you sure you want to go through everything to find out? It might take awhile but I’m willing to-”

“No! No, nevermind, um. How far are we from.. Uh… Hyde Park?”

Hmm, Melanie’s never actually been there from Georgie’s place before, she raises her phone and taps the home button. “Siri, how far away is Hyde Park?”

She must be more tired and her speech more slurred than she thought, because it takes a few tries before the phone picks up the right words. 

_ “It looks like Hyde Park is about 34 kilometres away by car.” _

She hears Samantha whispering “Okay, okay” to herself. Good that she’s getting her bearings, at least.

“What year is it?”

That one she doesn’t need help answering. “2018, nineteenth of October, since midnight’s gone and passed.” 

“Oh my  _ God. _ ”

“Yeah, I imagine that’s a  _ bit  _ far from when you last… left off.”

“Is that why you were wearing those gas-pipes? They look very unproper.”

Wearing  _ what? _ “Things, er, change, over time. Like, I thought the word was ‘improper’.”

“Oh! Oh, I think it is.” Samantha sounds more  _ casually  _ surprised for the first time. “I cocked it up, goddamn vazey I am, I’m sorry.” And it’s back to fearful apologies again. Fearful apologies and whatever the hell a “vazey” is.

“S’fine, we’re not getting angry over a grammar slip. This mean you believe you’re in the world of the living, yet?”

A pause. “I… do think hell should’ve been less… weird. And quiet.” 

There’s the slight buzz of cicadas outside, but Melanie thinks she agrees. There’s not the roar of blood or thump of pounding heart-drums, here. The air hangs still. Peaceful. Truthfully it makes Melanie feel a little at a loss for what to do with herself, but she’s glad it helps Samantha feel more at ease.

“You know, I suppose you don’t have to sleep, but I’m pretty sure the couch at least is more comfortable than the floor.” She scoots over and pats a battered cushion a few away from her, hoping Samantha will take it as a surrender of space. There’s the mattress, of course, but it’s also a bit… springy, in places.

She smiles as the air seems to get warmer. It loses the chill when, after a beat of quiet consideration, a weight comes down on the other side of the couch and settles.

There’s a single “Heh” of relief. “Last time I tried to sit on something I fell right through.” 

“Maybe once you’re active a bit more you can get the hang of holding onto your pendant,” Melanie suggests. Then, “You can play it, if you think it comforts you?”

“Not- no, my… head’s got holes in it. I don’t- I’d rather more prefer not trying to remember words that aren’t there anymore. Not right now.”

Melanie feels a pang. There are lyrics that she feels are woven deep enough in herself that she’d feel incomplete without them. It couldn’t have been easy for a ghost to have forgotten, after all those years. “You know, it’s not an unknown song, exactly- just kind of old. I searched for the full lyrics, if you want them?”

“... Yes please.”

“Right, then,” Melanie says, leaning back a bit. She can feel Samantha’s eyes on her, and it suddenly reminds her that kids can be downright critical. Still, if singing might help, she’ll do it. “Here’s how it goes:

_ Sleep my baby on my bosom  _ (“On my bosom”),

_ Warm and cozy will it prove, _

_ Round thee mother’s arms are folding, _

_ In her heart a mother’s love... _ ”

Samantha echoes some of her words, and, seemingly getting some confidence in herself, starts singing the next part as if being given a baton of a relay.

“ _ There shall nothing come to harm thee _

_ Naught shall ever break they rest. _

_ Sleep my darling babe in quiet, _

_ Sleep on mother’s gentle breast. _ ”

_ Drat.  _ Melanie remembers that she hadn’t gotten the rest of it down in her memory yet as there’s an expectant silence from Samantha. She tries her best to soldier on.

“Er…  _ Sleep serenely, baby, slumber _

_ Come now baby _ …  _ don’t y _ ou weep? (“I think the last word’s wrong.”)

_ Wherefore art thou _ … ( _ Tell me  _ wherefore-”)  _ are you smiling _

_ Smiling sweetly in your sleep? _ ”

“You don’t remember it all either, do you?”

Melanie sags a bit. “Sorry, no.”

“S’okay. It’s more than I had before…” another shift of the cushions. “I miss my mum… wish I still had her face.”

_ Oh, baby-  _ Melanie holds her phone up again. “We can ask the phone, if you still want the song?”

“Mhmm-hmm.” Samantha seems to be scooting closer, which Melanie takes as a yes. She can imagine her peering over to see the screen.

“Open Youtube and play Sleep My Baby.”

“ _ Here’s what I found for: Sia’s Baby _ .”

Melanie cringes as a heavy droning pop song- that she was  _ pretty sure doesn’t exist, what the hell, internet-  _ starts playing. After two beats of synthesised drums, she manages to hurriedly close the app.

“...I think my thing plays it better.”

“Gonna have to agree with you on that.”

She tries a couple more times to bring up the actual lullaby, cursing Apple a bit on the way.

She isn’t sure if Samantha was made uncomfortable by her frustration, but between tries she hears her pipe up, “I’m… sorry for calling you shaky, earlier. You sang it nicely.”

Melanie gives an amused sigh. “You’re rather good yourself.”

She hopes she isn’t imagining the pleased little bounce on the cushion beside her as she finally manages to open the right song.

Samantha seems to remember to say something. “Thank you very much, miss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's definitely been a month, and with the TMA finale closing in we are all in So much danger jhbkjk 
> 
> Thank you for your comments and kudos thus far!! We'll be seeing you next month, and stay safe

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter will be out November 7th!
> 
> Translation notes
> 
> 11Although you cannot open your mouth to speak  
> You understand good and evil, the dark and light,  
> Although you couldn’t express your sincerity  
> You gave your love through your burning life![return to text]
> 
> 22The beer is selling! X8[return to text]
> 
> 33What a familiar sounding voice,  
> With me for countless years of wind and rain,[return to text]
> 
> 44Never a hard-to-grasp memory,  
> Never to be forgotten,[return to text]
> 
> 55Without the sky there’d be no Earth,  
> Without the Earth there’d be no home,[return to text]
> 
> 66Without a home there’d be no you,  
> And then and then what would I be?[return to text]
> 
> 77 [And here's the link to a less direct translation of the song!](https://tw.voicetube.com/videos/13931?no_cache=1)[return to text]


End file.
